Rewrite
Where do you find Andrew Scott, the finest Irish whiskey, go-getting entrepreneurial rappers, and enough cowboy hats to fill a medium-sized arena? SXSW, the showcase event for rising creative talent, of course. Ben Tibbits heads into the deep South for a swashbuckling, Redbreast-fuelled odyssey.
British Airways is really leaning into the stereotype. As I sip a modest glass of champagne and the clock approaches midday, a wave of orchestral music swirls through the cabin. I couldn’t name the composition, but it’s a piece that wouldn’t feel out of place in a BBC adaptation of a Jane Austen novel. It’s charming but ever-so-slightly morose. Maybe it’s just me who takes issue with it; classical music makes me uneasy. I can’t help but think about my stringent cello teacher as a teenager. I never practised enough for her liking.
It’s approaching March’s midpoint. The wheels of an Airbus A350 leave English ground and soar into the cloudy atmosphere, en route towards the edges of Greenland, before swinging back down towards the south of the United States of America. The long-haul flight ahead actually feels welcome. I’ve got a lot of work to do (damn crooked deadlines), not to mention mental preparation for the week that awaits me on American soil. It feels a strange time to be travelling to this country, especially a Deep South red state like Texas. But that’s the beauty of the creative industries. They bring people together and offer hope amongst dread. I’m hoping to gain and grow from that.
As the minutes tick by, I write. Although you can never be sure what you are thinking makes sense that high in the air. Plane food? Delightful as ever. Plane films? The Running Man – rubbish, I don’t get Glenn Powell, and what on earth has happened to Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead’s director Edgar Wright? Caught Stealing – I enjoyed it, although needlessly dark and sinister at points.
After a turbulence-fuelled 10 and a half hour flight, I’m welcomed by a warm Texan evening. My driver, Antonio, is equally friendly, giving me plenty of local tips as he guides me to my hotel for the next four nights. I take in the settings around me: endless highways, prodigious vehicles, the odd hitchhiker, nooks of nature, copious signs for the best BBQ in town. I’m definitely in Austin.
The Thompson, my temporary home, is right in the centre, primed for hedonistic pursuits, Antonio assures me. I check in, scrub my face of its airborne gristle, and enjoy a tasty Mexican dinner at the hotel with the press party, consisting of a handful of film content creators and the PR team. I’m solo in my journalistic pursuits here. I head down for some air after, and I can see what Antonio meant – it’s rather animated for a Wednesday evening. Music pumps, roisterers stumble by. I see my first cowboy hats.
Back in my room, my feverish jetlag-imbued dreams are clairvoyant. I’m sláinteing glasses of irresistible dark brown liquid. Cracking wise with a famous Irish actor. Chanting back lyrics to British indie bands.
You’re probably wondering what I’m doing in Texas. It’s for South by Southwest – or SXSW as it’s more commonly known – one of, if not the biggest, networking and showcase events in the calendar. It sprawls across creative media, most specifically film, TV and music, and hosts some of the brightest and most distinguished names in their fields for panels, conferences, screenings, gigs, and an all-round good time.
I’m here for a specific crevice within this year’s framework. It all revolves around whiskey. Now, any regular reader of the ‘A Trip To…’ series will know that this writer is quite the connoisseur (or he wishes he is) when it comes to the world of whiskey. It’s not my first rodeo with a brand in this manner, heading halfway across the world to see what they’ve been cooking up. In this case, my hosts are Redbreast – offering perhaps a meal richer and more rewarding than I’ve ever sat down to eat.
Sometimes, brand campaigns make me queasy. They are too commercial, tone deaf to consumers. Often, just attaching a big-name celebrity to something to make it seem cool and interesting, when really, beneath the attractive face of the famous person, there is nothing but a swirling tornado of vacuous money-making. But this one is different – and I really mean that, not just because they flew me to Texas.
Some 170-plus years old, Redbreast is built on the foundations of lineage and of individuality. The latter has always been helped by the brand’s use of Spanish wine casks to distil their whiskey, something that they continue to do today. But aside from the technicalities of their product’s manufacturing, they’ve always come at the industry from a distinct angle. It’s not as common in your average pub as some of their competitors. Nor the drink brand whose name you’ll see invading TV screens or chasing sales. They feel more measured in their marketing and brand ethos. The suaver, more sophisticated cousin with great hair whom the rest of the family is slyly envious of. Oh, and it’s the most awarded single pot still Irish whiskey in the world. Go figure.
And so the partnership that they are pursuing around SXSW isn’t just an idle ploy to raise profits. It’s rooted in discovery, supporting rising cinematic talent, and aligning their brand message with creative industries. The incentive is called Redbreast Unhidden, and is in collaboration with BAFTA-winning Irish actor Andrew Scott. It centres on a search for the best new filmmakers, inviting aspiring directors to submit a short film for consideration. A list has been whittled down to the five strongest efforts. These five are as follows:
Visitors, an off-beat, absurdist horror comedy that touches on pregnancy fears from Minnie Schedeen; Can I Put You On Hold, a fantastical and emotionally piercing immigrant drama directed by James Cutler; Winter Ceremony, a subtle slice-of-life piece about family and heritage from Sidi Wang; Imago, a rip-roaring and oddly humorous body horror offering by Ariel Zengotita; and We Were Here, Pranav Bhasin’s mockumentary-style comedy about the rise of technology and remaining human within that.
The quintet of shorts will be screened to a small live audience, with a Q&A with Scott to follow. He’ll then pick his winner. For that spoiler, you’ll have to go here.
Anyways, back to the brass tacks. It’s 5am as I rub my eyes, awakened from cerebral visions. It’s too early for anything but to drink coffee. I take some time to get some work done before enjoying a dip in the hotel’s rooftop pool. It’s around midday when I finally meet up with the rest of the gang. We’re heading to the city’s Soho house for a fancy lunch, although I’m taking a pause mid Redbreast Espresso Martini for a chat with the man of the hour.
I’m led into some far corner room, finding Andrew Scott draped in a white suit and in fine spirits. In our interview, we talk about everything from this partnership to working with Richard Linklater on Blue Moon, from his career path to the importance of these showcase festivals. Again, there’s a real sense of feeling behind all of it. Nothing is forced, the collaboration feels natural and heartfelt. Scott offers some distinct thoughts on the nature of brand partnerships. “There’s always been a relationship between art and commerce,” he muses. “And those things can be mutually beneficial, that’s just always been the way. And so if somebody is writing something on their laptop or pursuing a creative endeavour, and a company can go, ‘Okay, we’ve got an incentive to help you,’ then that’s incredible. And I think the more that we’re creative about these kinds of partnerships, the better it’s gonna be.“
In the half hour or so we have together, Scott seems genuinely passionate about the short films and the prospect of working closely with the winner. It’s refreshing to see the celebrity ambassador so interested, and also a fuel of optimism to see Redbreast putting their money where their mouth is. Bravo to all.
I say my farewells to Scott and head back out to finish up lunch, a tasty vodka pasta. Before long, we’re ushered into a gathering and some whiskey tasting. It’s here that I meet my new idol, Billy Leighton, the mind behind Redbreast’s continued evolution with an industry-leading pedigree. He’s now the Master Blend Emeritus, having retired recently from the craft, but has been brought back just for this trip.
It’s fair to say we get on like a house on fire. Master Blenders to me are the filmmakers of the food and drink industry – the savants, the true visionaries. We try the 12, 18 and 21 year olds respectively, as well as the brand’s latest endeavour, the Redbreast Moscatel. There’s little more pleasurable in life than whiskey tasting – especially when done alongside the man behind these precious bottles.
It’s time for the screening of the five films. All are unique and compelling, diverse and thoughtful, with my personal favourite tied between We Were Here and Imago. The five films are followed by a Q&A with Scott and the filmmakers, which makes for a fascinating conversation.
After the screening, we’re dropped off back at the hotel (terrible traffic). There’s a few hours break, so I decide to get out and about, eager for my first proper experience with the nitty gritty of SXSW. I’m heading for a venue about a 15-minute walk away, and those minutes are full of entertainment and a touch of fear. Walking along the main strip on 6th Street is almost surreal. Everywhere you look, there’s some kind of mini plot forming – rap videos being shot, a man running around dressed as Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, four women walking in a row, about a metre between them, dressed as brides. It’s a commercial paradise, bursting with vibrancy, but also a somewhat uneasy undertone. All the bars have signs out front saying ‘No Firearms’. There’s police EVERYWHERE. I can’t tell if I love it or hate it. Maybe both.
I make it to my destination, a bar called Stubbs with a large backyard. There, I grab a beer and take in the set of the British band Grandmas House. The four-piece is great – fiery, intelligent punk jams, lots of zippy time signature changes and switches in tone and timbre. Characterful vocals too.
I’ve got to get back to the hotel to jump in a car for dinner. On the return route, I’m dragged into a bar and pretty much force-fed a shot of what I think is tequila. Two lads accost me on the street, and I end up buying (well, bartering to $1.50 a pop) CDs for both of their mixtapes.
From a portal of chaos to a much more civilised gathering. Dinner is at Commodore Perry, a gorgeous, grandiose private room with name cards and fancy menus explaining the plethora of courses and whiskey that we’ll be accompanying each with. As if they knew about our burgeoning bromance, I’m placed next to Billy, who I slainté at every possible occasion.
Dinner is a sumptuous soirée. I should really start taking photos of menus, so I don’t immediately forget what I’ve eaten, though. Next up, we’re heading to an after-party at the Powder Room for one of the most anticipated premiere screenings of this year’s festival, Wishful Thinking, written and directed by Graham Parkes, and starring Lewis Pullman and Wonderland alums Maya Hawke and Jake Shane. But I have one eye on the time – there’s an act I want to go and see. Pluckily adventurous, after a bit of gossiping, I make a French exit and walk the streets.
The musician I want to check out is Sassy 009, who has been picking up plenty of hype around her new album, Dreamer+. It’s clear to see the excitement has made it to SXSW, as the room is jam-packed, and I’m quite late. I enjoy what I see, slightly overwhelmed by the journey, and so feel perhaps I should retire my conscious state for the evening. A gallon of water first, though.
I wake up to the glorious sun. So there’s only one thing to do (bar shoot off some emails) – go swimming. I’m out for lunch next, changing up the vibe from yesterday’s opulence, going to Murray’s Tavern, a friendly local pub and grub spot. I take this opportunity to wind back my culture: fish and chips and a pint of Guinness. Fuckin’ bliss.
We’re supposed to go to a Deadline panel event next, another conversation with Andrew Scott. However, lunch has run over a spot, and we are unfortunately too late and can’t make it. Never mind. We instead skip straight to the next activity, which involves more Redbreast drinking. This time at The Dead Rabbit, a lovely Irish boozer, where splitting the G seems the key incentive.
Next, we’re back at the hotel for a bit of R&R. The sun is very much still shining, and so there’s only one thing to do – swim again, a second dip of the day. There’s no rule against it, I’m assured. What the hell – I’m (sort of) on holiday.
A few hours and a sensational swim later, and we’re all glammed up, ready for the night ahead. We’re off to dinner at Olamaie, another astoundingly decadent restaurant with our own private room. There’s a cocktail list of four (or five, I can’t remember), and I ask the nice waiting staff to bring them to me, in order, one at a time, so I can test the menu. One of the American content creators, a very suave and kindly man named Patrick, introduces the group to a new game, ‘Cheers Guvna’, which involves counting up to 21 and creating rules for each number as you go. And drinking when you make a mistake; I’m not brilliant at the game, so the cocktails are going down at breakneck speed.
Finishing up our tomfoolery and multitude of culinary delights, we are back out to the Powder Room for another Redbreast do. I engage in some witty confabs with party-goers before finding the true OG in the room, grand whiskey wizard Billy, sitting with what appears to be a fan. Under the table, he’s got an extra special delight – the brand’s magnum opus, the 27-year-old. He pours out one each for the table, and we drink to health, goodwill, Paddy’s day. It’s a ‘mum, I’ve made it’ moment.
The rest of the night gets lively. The press group have gone home, and so I follow the Redbreast crowd to another party, a bit murky on the details, before splitting off on a solo mission to find Bricknasty, my good friends and genre disruptors, for their set. Following the band’s finish, I get to know some locals. One fella, especially, whose name I’ve misplaced, gets really deep into it with me. He’s a fascinating guy who throws parties and seems to have a moderate substance addiction. After he tells me a little bit too much, I think it’s best to split off and get to bed before too long – the night is old, and I’m a long way from home.
The following morning is groggy, but I pull myself from my slumber. Today is my last day here, and, with no Redbreast activity, my first proper chance to dive into what SXSW is all about. I grab a juice that contains a plethora of salubrious assets (costs $13 dollars, mind, so I cherish every sip) and head out into the late morning sun.
The festival is in full force. Punters are sitting in fold-up chairs awaiting the next film premiere. There are all sorts of little merchandising ventures from every brand you could envisage. Most of it involves adults dressing up in silly costumes. I frequent a Peaky Blinders pop-up, here to celebrate the new feature film’s release, and find that The Garrison pub has been reconstructed in Texas. As a Brummie, I’m conflicted. People love it, though – at least Americans know Birmingham isn’t just in Alabama now.
There’s some football on, so I visit a sports bar. A bloke standing at the door promises me they’ll show the game, but as soon as I enter, I quickly realise it’s a mistake. There are only two other people in the bar, both of whom appear to work here and are drinking (beer and a chaser, I kindly pass on their offer of joining them for a shot, it’s barely midday). A couple later joins the entourage. Everyone is an absolute caricature of the deep South – all cowboy hats and poor personal hygiene. After a while, an amiable young man begins playing mediocre country songs to the empty room. He’s from Minnesota, down in Austin for the winter. I feel a flicker of sympathy, but maybe he doesn’t need it. He seems to be having fun. I smile at him warmly and mouth “good job” as I leave.
It feels like about time that I find some actual music. I stroll up one of the city’s steep hills, the heat really hitting now, to Downright Austin to find some familiar names. I’m at the BBC Introducing in America Stage, first seeing Famous Friend, an indie pop jammer who isn’t rewriting any rule book but is good fun. Very upbeat and sunny – the serotonin I need. Next up, I see Grace Sorensen, whose Latin-infused R&B sound is vibey and vivacious with great vocals and sharp hooks. I’m impressed. Finally, my favourite, The Sophs, a band who have been making a splash, releasing their debut album GOLDSTAR, the day before the set. The six-piece is a hell of a lot of fun, stylistically loose and playful, while the frontman is a ball of charm and technicality. Definitely one to keep an eye on.
After hours of the sun beaming down on me, I take a cool-off period back at the hotel, back embarking back out to the same location for a meet-up with the one and only Sian Eleri, the Welsh DJ and presenter known for her shows on BBC Radio 1, Selector Radio, Radio Cymru, etc. We grab a drink (hers a pale ale, mine a frozen marg) and dive deep into music discovery, her journey to the pinnacle of her craft and the future of radio. An interview for that one is coming soon.
I wave goodbye to Sian and head back to the hotel to meet the rest of the group. We’re off to a local BBQ spot for dinner. The meats look mesmerising, but my recent venture into pescatarianism (which is feeling more and more derivative by the meal) means I stick with mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
We head out into the evening for a Texan swansong. First off, we end up at a local bar with some live music upstairs. The place begins rather empty, but soon fills up with middle-aged American blokes who at first are fun in a novel way but quickly become too much. There’s one guy whose vocation is cleaning cars, but says his dream is to clean spaceships. He hands me a business card, although I don’t think I’ll have much use for it. My spaceship is always spotless.
We shake off the invasive gentlemen and get into some live music. First up, an English band that I’ve long been a follower of. CQ Wrestling – formally Chappaqua Wrestling – have been on the indie circuit for years, and delivers the goods to a pumped-up crowd at Seven Grand. Irresistible indie goodness. We stick around for the next band, the Irish four-piece Basht., who are on my radar but I’m less familiar with. Similarly, really strong stuff, somewhere between Fontaines D.C., The Murder Capital and Inhaler. Punky but not arresting or complex. Worth a shot if you see them on a festival poster you’re heading to this summer.
By this point, the Redbreast crew have joined us, and we’re all sipping Old Fashioneds and having a jolly good time. We watch some of the next act – Mancunian act Nightbus, who acutely merge post-punk, trip-hop and atmospheric electronica – before we’re propositioned for a nightcap at a Redbreast bar. One more cocktail, a messy group picture and a cab home. Quite the night!
The next morning is driven by mild melancholia and a sense of dread ahead of the long trip home. It’s a tumultuous time at the airport, as my new publicist pal has some trouble with her flight – it’s not showing up, effectively. A man named James with a strong moustache and the star power to lead an eight-part HBO conspiracy thriller is our attendant at the desk. “London’s down,” he keeps repeating, offering little other information. He’s typing away on two computers, speaking on a radio and a phone simultaneously, deep into whatever adversity is occurring. Eventually, as our flight boardings trickle closer, James cracks the code, and we’re through. Not all heroes wear capes.
Here, I wave goodbye to my companions, as I’m on a different flight. A lengthy first plane lands at JFK, New York. I wait, and I wait. Eventually, British Airways welcomes me back aboard. I stretch out my legs, rewatch Anora (just as good a second time), fail to sleep, and muse on the incredible week that I’ve just experienced.
In this age of excessive fandom and the commercial world’s insatiable appetite to find credibility in celebrity endorsement, it’s easy to look at partnerships between public figures and brands and be cynical about them. I admit, I often have been, and will continue to be. But there’s a different feeling behind this alliance between Redbreast and Andrew Scott for Unhidden. It’s a brand he’s “proud of,” he told me, and I believed him. Also, everything Irish is more authentic, isn’t it? Just look at Billy Leighton, my absolute goat.
As for SXSW? Well, that place is a simulation. It shows much of the America that I struggle with as a liberal Brit. But it’s also infested with creativity, with compelling characters, and peerless side quests. Scott put it best: “There’s a kind of passion that is shared by people buzzing around with lanyards on the street corner… There’s the idea of something that has not yet been given birth to that you’re all there to witness… It sort of backs you up, and makes you think, ‘Wow, yeah, I’m not alone.’”
So, as I slump on the Elizabeth line at 9am on Monday morning, rushing home to fix my body clock, I may be on my own, feeling tired and socially dishevelled. But in my soul, I know, I can never be alone. Because you’re all reading this.
Read more ‘A Trip To…’ here.
Words – Ben Tibbits
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Where do you find Andrew Scott, the finest Irish whiskey, go-getting entrepreneurial rappers, and enough cowboy hats to fill a medium-sized arena? SXSW, the showcase event for rising creative talent, of course. Ben Tibbits heads into the deep South for a swashbuckling, Redbreast-fuelled odyssey.
British Airways is really leaning into the stereotype. As I sip a modest glass of champagne and the clock approaches midday, a wave of orchestral music swirls through the cabin. I couldn’t name the composition, but it’s a piece that wouldn’t feel out of place in a BBC adaptation of a Jane Austen novel. It’s charming but ever-so-slightly morose. Maybe it’s just me who takes issue with it; classical music makes me uneasy. I can’t help but think about my stringent cello teacher as a teenager. I never practised enough for her liking.
It’s approaching March’s midpoint. The wheels of an Airbus A350 leave English ground and soar into the cloudy atmosphere, en route towards the edges of Greenland, before swinging back down towards the south of the United States of America. The long-haul flight ahead actually feels welcome. I’ve got a lot of work to do (damn crooked deadlines), not to mention mental preparation for the week that awaits me on American soil. It feels a strange time to be travelling to this country, especially a Deep South red state like Texas. But that’s the beauty of the creative industries. They bring people together and offer hope amongst dread. I’m hoping to gain and grow from that.
As the minutes tick by, I write. Although you can never be sure what you are thinking makes sense that high in the air. Plane food? Delightful as ever. Plane films? The Running Man – rubbish, I don’t get Glenn Powell, and what on earth has happened to Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead’s director Edgar Wright? Caught Stealing – I enjoyed it, although needlessly dark and sinister at points.
After a turbulence-fuelled 10 and a half hour flight, I’m welcomed by a warm Texan evening. My driver, Antonio, is equally friendly, giving me plenty of local tips as he guides me to my hotel for the next four nights. I take in the settings around me: endless highways, prodigious vehicles, the odd hitchhiker, nooks of nature, copious signs for the best BBQ in town. I’m definitely in Austin.
The Thompson, my temporary home, is right in the centre, primed for hedonistic pursuits, Antonio assures me. I check in, scrub my face of its airborne gristle, and enjoy a tasty Mexican dinner at the hotel with the press party, consisting of a handful of film content creators and the PR team. I’m solo in my journalistic pursuits here. I head down for some air after, and I can see what Antonio meant – it’s rather animated for a Wednesday evening. Music pumps, roisterers stumble by. I see my first cowboy hats.
Back in my room, my feverish jetlag-imbued dreams are clairvoyant. I’m sláinteing glasses of irresistible dark brown liquid. Cracking wise with a famous Irish actor. Chanting back lyrics to British indie bands.
You’re probably wondering what I’m doing in Texas. It’s for South by Southwest – or SXSW as it’s more commonly known – one of, if not the biggest, networking and showcase events in the calendar. It sprawls across creative media, most specifically film, TV and music, and hosts some of the brightest and most distinguished names in their fields for panels, conferences, screenings, gigs, and an all-round good time.
I’m here for a specific crevice within this year’s framework. It all revolves around whiskey. Now, any regular reader of the ‘A Trip To…’ series will know that this writer is quite the connoisseur (or he wishes he is) when it comes to the world of whiskey. It’s not my first rodeo with a brand in this manner, heading halfway across the world to see what they’ve been cooking up. In this case, my hosts are Redbreast – offering perhaps a meal richer and more rewarding than I’ve ever sat down to eat.
Sometimes, brand campaigns make me queasy. They are too commercial, tone deaf to consumers. Often, just attaching a big-name celebrity to something to make it seem cool and interesting, when really, beneath the attractive face of the famous person, there is nothing but a swirling tornado of vacuous money-making. But this one is different – and I really mean that, not just because they flew me to Texas.
Some 170-plus years old, Redbreast is built on the foundations of lineage and of individuality. The latter has always been helped by the brand’s use of Spanish wine casks to distil their whiskey, something that they continue to do today. But aside from the technicalities of their product’s manufacturing, they’ve always come at the industry from a distinct angle. It’s not as common in your average pub as some of their competitors. Nor the drink brand whose name you’ll see invading TV screens or chasing sales. They feel more measured in their marketing and brand ethos. The suaver, more sophisticated cousin with great hair whom the rest of the family is slyly envious of. Oh, and it’s the most awarded single pot still Irish whiskey in the world. Go figure.
And so the partnership that they are pursuing around SXSW isn’t just an idle ploy to raise profits. It’s rooted in discovery, supporting rising cinematic talent, and aligning their brand message with creative industries. The incentive is called Redbreast Unhidden, and is in collaboration with BAFTA-winning Irish actor Andrew Scott. It centres on a search for the best new filmmakers, inviting aspiring directors to submit a short film for consideration. A list has been whittled down to the five strongest efforts. These five are as follows:
Visitors, an off-beat, absurdist horror comedy that touches on pregnancy fears from Minnie Schedeen; Can I Put You On Hold, a fantastical and emotionally piercing immigrant drama directed by James Cutler; Winter Ceremony, a subtle slice-of-life piece about family and heritage from Sidi Wang; Imago, a rip-roaring and oddly humorous body horror offering by Ariel Zengotita; and We Were Here, Pranav Bhasin’s mockumentary-style comedy about the rise of technology and remaining human within that.
The quintet of shorts will be screened to a small live audience, with a Q&A with Scott to follow. He’ll then pick his winner. For that spoiler, you’ll have to go here.
Anyways, back to the brass tacks. It’s 5am as I rub my eyes, awakened from cerebral visions. It’s too early for anything but to drink coffee. I take some time to get some work done before enjoying a dip in the hotel’s rooftop pool. It’s around midday when I finally meet up with the rest of the gang. We’re heading to the city’s Soho house for a fancy lunch, although I’m taking a pause mid Redbreast Espresso Martini for a chat with the man of the hour.
I’m led into some far corner room, finding Andrew Scott draped in a white suit and in fine spirits. In our interview, we talk about everything from this partnership to working with Richard Linklater on Blue Moon, from his career path to the importance of these showcase festivals. Again, there’s a real sense of feeling behind all of it. Nothing is forced, the collaboration feels natural and heartfelt. Scott offers some distinct thoughts on the nature of brand partnerships. “There’s always been a relationship between art and commerce,” he muses. “And those things can be mutually beneficial, that’s just always been the way. And so if somebody is writing something on their laptop or pursuing a creative endeavour, and a company can go, ‘Okay, we’ve got an incentive to help you,’ then that’s incredible. And I think the more that we’re creative about these kinds of partnerships, the better it’s gonna be.“
In the half hour or so we have together, Scott seems genuinely passionate about the short films and the prospect of working closely with the winner. It’s refreshing to see the celebrity ambassador so interested, and also a fuel of optimism to see Redbreast putting their money where their mouth is. Bravo to all.
I say my farewells to Scott and head back out to finish up lunch, a tasty vodka pasta. Before long, we’re ushered into a gathering and some whiskey tasting. It’s here that I meet my new idol, Billy Leighton, the mind behind Redbreast’s continued evolution with an industry-leading pedigree. He’s now the Master Blend Emeritus, having retired recently from the craft, but has been brought back just for this trip.
It’s fair to say we get on like a house on fire. Master Blenders to me are the filmmakers of the food and drink industry – the savants, the true visionaries. We try the 12, 18 and 21 year olds respectively, as well as the brand’s latest endeavour, the Redbreast Moscatel. There’s little more pleasurable in life than whiskey tasting – especially when done alongside the man behind these precious bottles.
It’s time for the screening of the five films. All are unique and compelling, diverse and thoughtful, with my personal favourite tied between We Were Here and Imago. The five films are followed by a Q&A with Scott and the filmmakers, which makes for a fascinating conversation.
After the screening, we’re dropped off back at the hotel (terrible traffic). There’s a few hours break, so I decide to get out and about, eager for my first proper experience with the nitty gritty of SXSW. I’m heading for a venue about a 15-minute walk away, and those minutes are full of entertainment and a touch of fear. Walking along the main strip on 6th Street is almost surreal. Everywhere you look, there’s some kind of mini plot forming – rap videos being shot, a man running around dressed as Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, four women walking in a row, about a metre between them, dressed as brides. It’s a commercial paradise, bursting with vibrancy, but also a somewhat uneasy undertone. All the bars have signs out front saying ‘No Firearms’. There’s police EVERYWHERE. I can’t tell if I love it or hate it. Maybe both.
I make it to my destination, a bar called Stubbs with a large backyard. There, I grab a beer and take in the set of the British band Grandmas House. The four-piece is great – fiery, intelligent punk jams, lots of zippy time signature changes and switches in tone and timbre. Characterful vocals too.
I’ve got to get back to the hotel to jump in a car for dinner. On the return route, I’m dragged into a bar and pretty much force-fed a shot of what I think is tequila. Two lads accost me on the street, and I end up buying (well, bartering to $1.50 a pop) CDs for both of their mixtapes.
From a portal of chaos to a much more civilised gathering. Dinner is at Commodore Perry, a gorgeous, grandiose private room with name cards and fancy menus explaining the plethora of courses and whiskey that we’ll be accompanying each with. As if they knew about our burgeoning bromance, I’m placed next to Billy, who I slainté at every possible occasion.
Dinner is a sumptuous soirée. I should really start taking photos of menus, so I don’t immediately forget what I’ve eaten, though. Next up, we’re heading to an after-party at the Powder Room for one of the most anticipated premiere screenings of this year’s festival, Wishful Thinking, written and directed by Graham Parkes, and starring Lewis Pullman and Wonderland alums Maya Hawke and Jake Shane. But I have one eye on the time – there’s an act I want to go and see. Pluckily adventurous, after a bit of gossiping, I make a French exit and walk the streets.
The musician I want to check out is Sassy 009, who has been picking up plenty of hype around her new album, Dreamer+. It’s clear to see the excitement has made it to SXSW, as the room is jam-packed, and I’m quite late. I enjoy what I see, slightly overwhelmed by the journey, and so feel perhaps I should retire my conscious state for the evening. A gallon of water first, though.
I wake up to the glorious sun. So there’s only one thing to do (bar shoot off some emails) – go swimming. I’m out for lunch next, changing up the vibe from yesterday’s opulence, going to Murray’s Tavern, a friendly local pub and grub spot. I take this opportunity to wind back my culture: fish and chips and a pint of Guinness. Fuckin’ bliss.
We’re supposed to go to a Deadline panel event next, another conversation with Andrew Scott. However, lunch has run over a spot, and we are unfortunately too late and can’t make it. Never mind. We instead skip straight to the next activity, which involves more Redbreast drinking. This time at The Dead Rabbit, a lovely Irish boozer, where splitting the G seems the key incentive.
Next, we’re back at the hotel for a bit of R&R. The sun is very much still shining, and so there’s only one thing to do – swim again, a second dip of the day. There’s no rule against it, I’m assured. What the hell – I’m (sort of) on holiday.
A few hours and a sensational swim later, and we’re all glammed up, ready for the night ahead. We’re off to dinner at Olamaie, another astoundingly decadent restaurant with our own private room. There’s a cocktail list of four (or five, I can’t remember), and I ask the nice waiting staff to bring them to me, in order, one at a time, so I can test the menu. One of the American content creators, a very suave and kindly man named Patrick, introduces the group to a new game, ‘Cheers Guvna’, which involves counting up to 21 and creating rules for each number as you go. And drinking when you make a mistake; I’m not brilliant at the game, so the cocktails are going down at breakneck speed.
Finishing up our tomfoolery and multitude of culinary delights, we are back out to the Powder Room for another Redbreast do. I engage in some witty confabs with party-goers before finding the true OG in the room, grand whiskey wizard Billy, sitting with what appears to be a fan. Under the table, he’s got an extra special delight – the brand’s magnum opus, the 27-year-old. He pours out one each for the table, and we drink to health, goodwill, Paddy’s day. It’s a ‘mum, I’ve made it’ moment.
The rest of the night gets lively. The press group have gone home, and so I follow the Redbreast crowd to another party, a bit murky on the details, before splitting off on a solo mission to find Bricknasty, my good friends and genre disruptors, for their set. Following the band’s finish, I get to know some locals. One fella, especially, whose name I’ve misplaced, gets really deep into it with me. He’s a fascinating guy who throws parties and seems to have a moderate substance addiction. After he tells me a little bit too much, I think it’s best to split off and get to bed before too long – the night is old, and I’m a long way from home.
The following morning is groggy, but I pull myself from my slumber. Today is my last day here, and, with no Redbreast activity, my first proper chance to dive into what SXSW is all about. I grab a juice that contains a plethora of salubrious assets (costs $13 dollars, mind, so I cherish every sip) and head out into the late morning sun.
The festival is in full force. Punters are sitting in fold-up chairs awaiting the next film premiere. There are all sorts of little merchandising ventures from every brand you could envisage. Most of it involves adults dressing up in silly costumes. I frequent a Peaky Blinders pop-up, here to celebrate the new feature film’s release, and find that The Garrison pub has been reconstructed in Texas. As a Brummie, I’m conflicted. People love it, though – at least Americans know Birmingham isn’t just in Alabama now.
There’s some football on, so I visit a sports bar. A bloke standing at the door promises me they’ll show the game, but as soon as I enter, I quickly realise it’s a mistake. There are only two other people in the bar, both of whom appear to work here and are drinking (beer and a chaser, I kindly pass on their offer of joining them for a shot, it’s barely midday). A couple later joins the entourage. Everyone is an absolute caricature of the deep South – all cowboy hats and poor personal hygiene. After a while, an amiable young man begins playing mediocre country songs to the empty room. He’s from Minnesota, down in Austin for the winter. I feel a flicker of sympathy, but maybe he doesn’t need it. He seems to be having fun. I smile at him warmly and mouth “good job” as I leave.
It feels like about time that I find some actual music. I stroll up one of the city’s steep hills, the heat really hitting now, to Downright Austin to find some familiar names. I’m at the BBC Introducing in America Stage, first seeing Famous Friend, an indie pop jammer who isn’t rewriting any rule book but is good fun. Very upbeat and sunny – the serotonin I need. Next up, I see Grace Sorensen, whose Latin-infused R&B sound is vibey and vivacious with great vocals and sharp hooks. I’m impressed. Finally, my favourite, The Sophs, a band who have been making a splash, releasing their debut album GOLDSTAR, the day before the set. The six-piece is a hell of a lot of fun, stylistically loose and playful, while the frontman is a ball of charm and technicality. Definitely one to keep an eye on.
After hours of the sun beaming down on me, I take a cool-off period back at the hotel, back embarking back out to the same location for a meet-up with the one and only Sian Eleri, the Welsh DJ and presenter known for her shows on BBC Radio 1, Selector Radio, Radio Cymru, etc. We grab a drink (hers a pale ale, mine a frozen marg) and dive deep into music discovery, her journey to the pinnacle of her craft and the future of radio. An interview for that one is coming soon.
I wave goodbye to Sian and head back to the hotel to meet the rest of the group. We’re off to a local BBQ spot for dinner. The meats look mesmerising, but my recent venture into pescatarianism (which is feeling more and more derivative by the meal) means I stick with mac and cheese and corn on the cob.
We head out into the evening for a Texan swansong. First off, we end up at a local bar with some live music upstairs. The place begins rather empty, but soon fills up with middle-aged American blokes who at first are fun in a novel way but quickly become too much. There’s one guy whose vocation is cleaning cars, but says his dream is to clean spaceships. He hands me a business card, although I don’t think I’ll have much use for it. My spaceship is always spotless.
We shake off the invasive gentlemen and get into some live music. First up, an English band that I’ve long been a follower of. CQ Wrestling – formally Chappaqua Wrestling – have been on the indie circuit for years, and delivers the goods to a pumped-up crowd at Seven Grand. Irresistible indie goodness. We stick around for the next band, the Irish four-piece Basht., who are on my radar but I’m less familiar with. Similarly, really strong stuff, somewhere between Fontaines D.C., The Murder Capital and Inhaler. Punky but not arresting or complex. Worth a shot if you see them on a festival poster you’re heading to this summer.
By this point, the Redbreast crew have joined us, and we’re all sipping Old Fashioneds and having a jolly good time. We watch some of the next act – Mancunian act Nightbus, who acutely merge post-punk, trip-hop and atmospheric electronica – before we’re propositioned for a nightcap at a Redbreast bar. One more cocktail, a messy group picture and a cab home. Quite the night!
The next morning is driven by mild melancholia and a sense of dread ahead of the long trip home. It’s a tumultuous time at the airport, as my new publicist pal has some trouble with her flight – it’s not showing up, effectively. A man named James with a strong moustache and the star power to lead an eight-part HBO conspiracy thriller is our attendant at the desk. “London’s down,” he keeps repeating, offering little other information. He’s typing away on two computers, speaking on a radio and a phone simultaneously, deep into whatever adversity is occurring. Eventually, as our flight boardings trickle closer, James cracks the code, and we’re through. Not all heroes wear capes.
Here, I wave goodbye to my companions, as I’m on a different flight. A lengthy first plane lands at JFK, New York. I wait, and I wait. Eventually, British Airways welcomes me back aboard. I stretch out my legs, rewatch Anora (just as good a second time), fail to sleep, and muse on the incredible week that I’ve just experienced.
In this age of excessive fandom and the commercial world’s insatiable appetite to find credibility in celebrity endorsement, it’s easy to look at partnerships between public figures and brands and be cynical about them. I admit, I often have been, and will continue to be. But there’s a different feeling behind this alliance between Redbreast and Andrew Scott for Unhidden. It’s a brand he’s “proud of,” he told me, and I believed him. Also, everything Irish is more authentic, isn’t it? Just look at Billy Leighton, my absolute goat.
As for SXSW? Well, that place is a simulation. It shows much of the America that I struggle with as a liberal Brit. But it’s also infested with creativity, with compelling characters, and peerless side quests. Scott put it best: “There’s a kind of passion that is shared by people buzzing around with lanyards on the street corner… There’s the idea of something that has not yet been given birth to that you’re all there to witness… It sort of backs you up, and makes you think, ‘Wow, yeah, I’m not alone.’”
So, as I slump on the Elizabeth line at 9am on Monday morning, rushing home to fix my body clock, I may be on my own, feeling tired and socially dishevelled. But in my soul, I know, I can never be alone. Because you’re all reading this.
Read more ‘A Trip To…’ here.
Words – Ben Tibbits
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